tales of the Middenvale
by diggertheburrowingowl
Summary: The extraordinary story of the children of Dol Amroth and the people and events on whom they left their mark
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nada. I'm a broke college student. Leave me alone.

A/N: thank you to all my LOTRO kinnies who agreed to let me use their names as characters. This chapter is dedicated in particular to Jhoanred, for whom I produced this very quickly so that he would have something to anticipate coming back to whilst at Boot Camp.

**Tales of the Middenvale**

**Part One**

Nothing seemed amiss as the siblings took their places around the table in preparation for the morning meal. At least, that was how it seemed to Imrahil as he entered the room himself. "Good morning, children."

"Good morning, father," they responded in unison, making Imrahil smile as he took his seat at the head of the table. "I hope you all slept well."

"As well as one could with a young infant," Elphir responded, making his brother Erchirion snort in amusement. "Is there any other kind, brother?" At this, their brother Amrothos let out a chuckle and subsequently choked on the water he was trying to drink.

"Besides Amro, you mean?"

Imrahil chuckled at Elphir's answer, as did everyone else, but his smile quickly faded as he noticed that not everyone was at the table after all. "Amrothos?"

"Yes, father?" Amrothos replied absentmindedly, occupied with dabbing at his wet shirt with a napkin.

"Where's your sister?" Imrahil could be forgiven for not having seen the empty chair at first- Lothiriel usually sat beside Amrothos and Erchirion, at the far end from Imrahil, and could regularly be obstructed from the view for the simple fact that her brothers were all extremely tall.

"She isn't feeling well," Amrothos replied, still preoccupied with his shirt.

Erchirion raised an eyebrow. "What was it this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did someone pass or is someone going to pass, and is that what she dreamt about?" Erchirion appeared non-plussed and yet still managed to convey his worry. The others looked confused. "Nightmare?"

Erchirion's expression became a tad exasperated. "I cannot be the only one who heard her screaming last night."

"I woke her up," Amrothos reassured them. "She's fine."

Elphir lifted his glass and took a sip. "So?"

Amrothos' annoyance at the questioning finally showed through when he tossed his napkin into his plate and looked across the table at his brother. "So what?"

"You know what," Elphir told him. Amrothos sighed. "I have no idea. She refuses to talk about it."

Imrahil could hear the underlying tone is his son's voice. "But?" he prompted.

"But I would wager that it was the nightmare about Boromir's death, yet again," Amrothos told them as he leaned back in his chair. "She doesn't always see something new in each dream or nightmare, you know."

"I know."

"And you can't push her for answers on anything-"

"I know."

"Nor can you prompt her-"

"I KNOW!"

"Boys!" Imrahil's voice had enough edge to it that Amrothos and Elphir both ceased the argument and picked up their utensils to continue their breakfast.

"Thank you," Imrahil said with relief. He looked down the table to a safer source of conversation. "Aerlin?"

His daughter in law smiled at him. "Yes?"

Imrahil smiled back. "I heard from Master Arodlin yesterday. He told me that Alphros is doing quite well with his lessons."

The transformation was instant- both Elphir and his wife brightened up with smiles, and the conversation was safely turned in the direction of listening to Elphir and Aerlin extoll the accomplishments of their son and heir, Imrahil's only grandchild.

(At least, that's what the men thought. Aerlin had reason to suspect otherwise, but she decided to keep that to herself for the time being, until her suspicions could be confirmed.)

Although the circumstances of the morning were basically the same no matter where you went in Gondor, the individuality of each household could vary drastically. Such was the case in on the opposite side of the country from Dol Amroth. In this less formal and very domestic setting, the people who occupied the homesteads scattered around the small valley had already been awake a long time. Already they were awake, tending to household chores, seeing to the fields, caring for their farm animals…

… And, of the most importance, making sure their mounts were well exercised.

Keeping the horses ever-ready was not merely a compulsion brought on by the imminent threat of war, and these were no ordinary riders themselves. Some years before, when the shadow of the White Hand had fallen over Rohan, a group of its people had had no choice but to flee into the mountains and over the border. Since that time, they had existed tenuously along the mountain border between the two countries, keeping relatively to themselves, and like everyone else, waiting. Waiting impatiently, for the moment when they could return to their homes.

****

"Have the horses been watered and fed?"

"Yes Captain."

"Exercised?"

"Yes Captain."

"And the lookouts were all sent out-"

"On fresh horses? Yes." From above, a voice rang out, and, a few moments later, a face appeared to be matched to the voice. "Thank you, Bedwur. Go, get yourself fed."

"Thank you, my lady." The little boy, Bedwur, graced the woman with a wide smile before running back out the door. After the door had swung shut, the man sitting at the table turned his neck to look at his companion in silent question.

"You know they remember everything, husband," Leofcwyn responded, making her way down the rest of the stairs. "You shouldn't be so tense about it."

"We're fighting a war. I can't afford to take a break."

"Your job is why you need a break, Jhoanred," Leofcwyn sighed, taking the seat across the table and looking straight into her husband's eyes.

Jhoanred said nothing, instead shifting his gaze to look out the window. As always- though he almost never admitted to it- as always, his wife was usually right. He wondered still how exactly they had been thrown together.

Jhoanred's background was a far cry from his wife's. Whereas Leofcwyn had been raised as the oldest granddaughter of a rather prolific Rohirric marshal, Jhoanred had- actually, no one was quite sure about Jhoanred's background. It was generally known and accepted that his father, at least, was a Gondorian- his mother, however, was not. His mother was from Harad.

He could appear as a citizen of either country; he spoke the languages of both the lands, and well as the culture and customs. This was both to his advantage and disadvantage. He could not go openly into Harad without raising Gondorian suspicion, so he took another route- he went quietly, so that no one noticed. To the general Gondorian populace, Jhoanred appeared to be nothing more than a simple courier, whose services were employed mainly by the younger Dol Amrothian royals and the younger nobles of Lossarnach.

The reality was much different- Jhoanred was, effectively, a spy. Trusted implicitly by Amrothos and his sister, Jhoanred had become a liaison between the refugee community, Dol Amroth, and Lossarnach, to keep the settlement's existence quiet, and to help their main supporters keep up the appearance that nothing was out of place.

He had fought the Druedain to the north of Gondor; he still shuddered at the memory of the poison from the arrows making its way through his body. He had moved from Gondor to Rohan and back without being noticed by anyone, thereby providing valuable intelligence. He had gone beyond Enedwaith to the old kingdom of Arnor, where he and Amrothos had actively recruited a network of farmers and seemingly regular citizens as smugglers- although he wasn't entirely sure if any of the hobbits they were buying supplies from were fully aware of what was going on. And after them, it was back over Druedain lines… he shuddered again, causing Leofcwyn to reach across the table. "Peace, enough. You're alive." Pulling back, she switched back to business. "When do we leave?"

"Soon, I think." There was no question- where he went, Leofcwyn followed, if she chose to do so.

"Have you heard from her?"

"Nothing."

"Really?"

Jhoanred sighed. "I don't know."

****


	2. Chapter 2 The Will of Boromir

_**Dated the – of -, in the year – of the Third Age, being the – year of the reign of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor**_

_**Written by – the Scribe, Elder Scribe and Chief Keeper of the Gondorian Archives, of the sixteen level of the city of Minas Tirith, capital city of the Kingdom of Gondor**_

_**Addressed to the Lords of the Steward's Council**_

_My Lords,_

_This document is written by Master – and duly submitted to the Council to set forth the desires and intentions of the Lord Boromir, Captain of Gondor, eldest son and heir of the Lord Steward, concerning the handling of his estates and holdings found in the further reaches of Gondor, as well as the distribution of said estates and holdings along with his estates, holdings, possessions and property found anywhere and shown to be in his personal ownership; that is, the distribution of such things in the event of the Lord Boromir's untimely demise or in the event of his becoming permanently incapacitated._

_ My lords, concerning the current administration of his holdings, in the further and far northern reaches of Gondor, it is the wish of the Lord Boromir that the more routine, day to day, and similar such concerns be left to the administration of the Lord Amrothos, Prince of Dol Amroth, youngest son of the ruling Prince of Dol Amroth, the Lord Imrahil; these concerns are further detailed outside any general charges already performed under the banner of the House of Dol Amroth._

_ Furthermore, it is also and equally the wish of the Lord Boromir that similar authorities and powers as granted to the Lord Amrothos, and particularly any of those that concern settlements as well as and in addition to citizens, be given to the care of the Lady Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, youngest child and only daughter of the Lord Imrahil; it is noted that the granting of these rights shall enable the Lady Princess to stand in equal authority with her brother, the Lord Amrothos, in particular over concerns pertaining to matters domestic, an area which has always been the rightful province of women._

_ As to the distribution of effects and possessions in the event of the death or disability of the Lord Boromir, it is the wish of Lord Boromir that anything beyond that which has already been detailed to the Lord Faramir, the Prince Imrahil, the Prince Elphir, or the Prince Erchirion in documents preceding; that is, any property not already bequeathed; such property as this that exists shall be passed, per the wishes of the Lord Boromir, into the possessions of both the Prince Amrothos and the Princess Lothiriel, cousins of the Lord Boromir, the details of said properties and possessions being further detailed herein__…_

Lothiriel sighed, placing the vellum pages back in their original position, then folding over and tying shut the leather folio that contained them. These few pages, plus the dozens more that followed them, were only a part of the problem that she was now facing.

It wasn't the inheritance itself, of course. Oh no, of course not, why would it be? Her cousin Boromir had made certain that she was amply provided for, whatever the situation might be. Indeed, he had made things so clear in this document that there could be absolutely no misinterpretation of the fact that Boromir had willed these things to her with the intent that they should remain perpetually in her control; even if- and when- she married, everything would remain in her name, rather than being assimilated into the estate of her husband, as was normally the custom.

_Of course, it was fairly certain that, even with his carefully precise nature, Boromir would not have foreseen that his careful wording would end up meaning that Lothiriel- and Amrothos- would eventually a inherit a large part of the responsibility for a group of Rohirric refugees._

A knock at the door interrupted Lothiriel's train of thought. She looked up. "Good morning, brother."

"Not interrupting any thoughts of major importance, am I?" Erchirion responded as he stepped over the threshold of his sister's quarters. Lothiriel shrugged. "Just my usual sort of thoughts."

"That's alright then, I suppose." Erchirion pulled a chair over from its place by the wall and sat down. "As long as you aren't dwelling on whatever it is that woke you up last night." He threw up a hand to stop whatever retort might come out of his sister's mouth. "I'm just looking out for you, that's all. You know that."

Lothiriel sighed, sinking back in her chair. "I know that, Erchi. It's just…"

"Frustrating? Annoying? Nerve-grating?" Erchirion quipped, making Lothiriel smile. "Believe me, sister. I know how you feel, especially these days. Bad feelings are seeping off of everyone like leeches."

Erchirion's talent was a singular ability, and one that not everyone realized existed; few people actually realized that the second son of the Prince of Dol Amroth was a natural empathy. This meant, among other things, that in addition to being able to sense the emotions of other beings, Erchirion also had the ability- albeit limited- to sense the "feelings" of nature. This had, on occasion, benefitted him well in his role as a sailor. These days, given the growing shadow in the East, it was proving to be somewhat more of a curse.

"Do you need something for that?" Lothiriel asked, the cautious tone evident in her voice. Erchirion sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "No, I'm alright. I'm just tired." He ran a hand over his face; Lothiriel took note of the dark circles under her brother's eyes, as well as- and this was new- the salt and pepper lightening of his hairline, particularly around his temples. Erchirion the Badger. Lothiriel snorted.

"What?" Erchirion asked; Lothiriel wiped the amused expression from her face. "Nothing."

Eyeing his sister, Erchirion straightened up in his chair. "Well, these days, I suppose you should take amusement wherever you can." Lothiriel gave him a nod of acknowledgement. "Eru knows we all need it."

Lothiriel's response was interraupted by the sound of knocking at the door. She turned her head. "Yes?"

The maid bobbed in a curtsy. " All your things have been moved to the departure hall, my lady, and your brother the lord Amrothos wished me to let you know that you will be departing immediately after the noon meal, which will instead…"

"Take place an hour earlier?" Lothiriel asked. The maid nodded. "Very well. Thank you." The maid curtsied again and left.

Erchirion sighed. "Well, that's that."


	3. From the Southfarthing to the Ered Nimra

_**Jhoanred,**_

_**As soon as you get this, make haste to the High Pass, join Lord Glafmir, and find Masters Hornblower and Haymitch. Get to Lossarnach, as quick as you can, and wait there until we arrive. Remain combat-ready at all times, and take counsel with Marshal Renholm. Memorize this, and then destroy it. ;;;;; Amrothos D.A.**_

**LOTROLOTROLOTROLOTRO**

For what was definitely not the first and would probably not be the last time in his heretofore uneventful life, Stevo wondered what exactly it was that he had gotten himself into.

Until a year ago, life had been relatively peaceful. And Stevo Hornblower, son of Aldo and Tori Hornblower, descendant of Old Toby Hornblower and purveyor of fine pipe-weed, had been quite content to have it remain that way. All that there was to do was to see to the (doing rather quite well) family business of pipe-weed production- which was doing rather well, to be sure- and, when not attending to this, sitting at home and enjoying life with his lovely wife, Poppywild, nee Thistledown, also of the Southfarthing, (and a descendant of the first cultivators and purveyors of Longbotttom Leaf; it was regarded as a rather ingenious match, business-wise.)

Life, in short, was good. (But not better than his wife's cooking, of course.)

And then along came the letter from Cousin Bilbo.

Cousin Bilbo, with whom Stevo had always been on good terms, (As well as being distantly related, they had always been very good friends), had asked- very politely, as always- if Stevo would be so kind as to oblige Bilbo by providing a few barrels of his best pipe-weed (a few wagons-full, in actual fact) for use at a party which Bilbo would shortly be hosting in order to celebrate his reaching the rather respectable age of eleventy-one years old. Stevo had been more than happy to oblige- after all, an invitation to the party HAD come along with the order.

And what a party it had been. It seemed that Bilbo had invited the whole of the Shire- or, at least, he had invited about three quarters of the Shire, and the rest of them had just turned up anyway. It was no matter, though, because Bilbo had enough food and drink, it seemed, to feed everyone from each of the Four Farthings at least twice over.

And, to top it all off, Bilbo had fireworks. And not the cheap stuff you got by wrangling with Lobelia, oh no. Real, genuine, created-by-a-wizard-and-therefore-absolutely-completely-delightful fireworks. Set off and maintained by the creator himself, one Gandalf the Grey, who Stevo had always looked upon with amazement and something approaching admiration, all while pointedly ignoring the whispers from those around him about how associating with wizards and dwarves and anyone from outside of the Shire made one queer in the eyes of his fellow hobbits. And, since Bilbo had actually gone off on an adventure with a group of dwarves and said wizard for long enough that people thought him dead, he must certainly have been the queerest hobbit of all.

(Of course, being inherently polite beings, the one thing that never came up in relation to Bilbo being queer was the fact that he had not aged since returning from said adventure, despite the fact that he was most definitely getting older.)

Generally, Stevo made a point of ignoring all that sort of talk. He wouldn't be able to give you a reason if you asked him- or maybe he wasn't willing; after all, being cousins, Stevo and Bilbo did share that "odd" streak that came from their mutually shared Took ancestry. (Odd, that is, to other hobbits, not to them.) And so it was that Stevo had blissfully ignored all gossip and contented himself with enjoying the party.

And then Bilbo had taken to the stage, begun a speech, and suddenly disappeared.

That had been the turning point. It wasn't Stevo's meeting with Frodo the next day, it wasn't the pipe-weed delivery to Bree some months later, or the chance meeting with Gandalf at the Pony, or his suddenly agreeing to open the section of road along his pipe weed lands for use by a certain Bree-farmer- it was Bilbo's snap disappearance that had set these events in motion.

And so it was that-if he were any other hobbit, unrelated to Bilbo Baggins- that Stevo found it likely that Bilbo could be said to be the one to blame for his current predicament- carefully navigating a winding, somewhat narrow path through the White Mountains, along with several ponies, assorted supplies, and that previously mentioned human farmer, one Hungeth of Bree, respected farmer, supply-man, and provisioner.

"If we're lucky, we'll make it there by nightfall," said farmer commented, gazing at the sky above them. "Hopefully, the rain will hold off until then."

Stevo snorted. "We should be so lucky. Every time we manage to avoid something bad, something else takes its place."

Without looking back, Hungeth rolled his eyes and let out a huff of exasperation. "One would think that you would be a little less fearful by this point." Stevo was about to shoot back with a reply when suddenly, as if to reinforce Stevo's point, they heard a low rumbling from somewhere up above.

"What was that?" the hobbit squeaked in alarm. They stopped, eyes searching cautiously for the source of the noise.

"Please tell me you remembered your weapons this time," Hungeth hissed, eyes darting warily about before falling sharply on Stevo, who nodded in response.

"Strapped to the one in the back," he whispered, bobbing his head in the direction of the final pony in the caravan.

"Well, go get them, then!" Hungeth snapped, his hand on the pommel of his own sword. Stevo started to make his make his way backwards towards the pony, eyes still searching for any possible threats.

"D'you hear anything else?" Stevo squeaked in alarm, hands working frantically to untie the bundle which contained his sword. Hungeth shook his head, turning to look behind them, the hobbit mirroring his action.

"At your service, my dear masters."

Their reactions were almost instantaneous upon hearing the deep, gravelly voice; spinning around, both man and hobbit wrapped their hands securely around the hilts of their swords and drew them from their scabbards, ready for an ambush.

"really, gentlemen, I am very hurt. One would think that you ought to recognize my voice by this point."

Both exasperated and relieved, Hungeth withdrew his sword and re-sheathed it in its scabbard. "And your family's," he replied correctly, giving a short bow. "We may, however, be excused in this instance, I believe, as you do not generally sneak up on us like that." He turned to look at his companion. "You alright?"

"Fine," Stevo replied shortly, putting his weapon away as well.

"Come now, Master Hornblower." Finally, the source of the voice- one rather portly and full-bearded dwarf- slipped from his perch from high up the side of the pass and moved down to join the little caravan. "Have you ever run into serious danger in this pass, apart from the occasional animal? This pass is well-protected."

"But still threatened," Hungeth replied on behalf of his friend. He grabbed the bridle of the first pony in their caravan, and they once again began to move slowly forward.


	4. Chapter 4

"Over the meadow, under the willow, deep in the woods, a soft green pillow…"

Sighing, Amrothos put his sister's singing to the back of his mind and gently urged his horse forward, moving ahead to draw level with the captain of the guard. "Anything of note, Captain?"

"Quiet as a windless night." Replied the captain, a seasoned veteran guard by the name of Baranhir. "I've sent Gwindor and Huldan on a little further to scout the areas ahead."

Amrothos gave him a nod of agreement, "Probably best, I suppose."

"Then I left the window and followed the call,

Down the creaking stairs and across the hall,

Out through a door that swung tall and grey,

And over the lawn, and away, away…"

Given the relative calm that had lasted the last little while, it took a moment for Amrothos to realize that, rather than rounding it off and ending the verse as was normally requires, Lothiriel's voice had trailed off and faded.

"Lothiriel?" Gently pulling back on the reins, Amrothos let a portion of their caravan pass ahead of him until he was level with his sister. "Sister, what is it?"

"My lord!"

Jerking his head suddenly forward, Amrothos followed the sound of the voice until his eyes fell on a point ahead on their path; looking carefully, Amrothos could make out three figures making their way down the narrow trail, coming towards their party. Amrothos looked at his sister. "I suppose that;s what it is?"

Lothiriel raised and eyebrow. "What do you think, brother?"

The captain raised his hand to block what little light he could. "It's your Highness's- it is your man Jhoanred, my lord!"

Briefly exchanging a look with Lothiriel, Amrothos gave his horse a light kick and rode once again to the head of the line, just as Jhoanred and the patrolmen who had met him drew level with their party.

Amrothos raised his hand in greeting. "Peace be upon you, brother."

Mirroring the gesture, Jhoanred replied, "and unto you, peace." Lowering his hand, he added, "if such a thing still exists in this world."

Amrothos snorted. "If such a thing still exists, indeed."

Laughing with him, Jhoanred inclined his head towards Lothiriel. "My lady."

Lothiriel smiled in return. "Captain." Returning to a serious expression, she asked, "What news?"

Jhoanred's face also took on a serious expression. "The skies to the east grow darker, my lady," he told them, "and the peaks in the west are shrouded in clouds of white."

"Above or below the line?" Amrothos interrupted, the tension of his voice quite obvious.

"Above, thank goodness," Jhoanred replied. "If the beacons are lit, no one will have a problem seeing them."

"Has Lord Denethor shown any indication of whether or not he's going to light them?"

Before Jhoanred could answer her brother's query, Lothiriel stepped in. "I don't think it's a question of if the beacons are going to be lit, brother."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I think it will be more a question of when." Lothiriel raised her hood to cover her head. "And whoever it is that gives the order to light them, it won't be uncle Denethor."

Silenced, they rode on.


End file.
